


A Thousand Times Goodnight

by fayetality



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hate at First Sight, Homoerotic Lemon Eating, M/M, alternative universe, romeo and juliet - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26509321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fayetality/pseuds/fayetality
Summary: "I would actually prefer it if you left. You are disturbing me.""By talkin'?""Yes. There is no worth in talking for the mere sake of it."The man assessed him before speaking. "Well, it made ya stop cryin'. I wouldn't call that a waste."
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 12
Kudos: 138





	A Thousand Times Goodnight

**Author's Note:**

> Local author attempts to write a scene from a play that most likely does not actually exist (they simply cannot recall). Also, author vehemently hates Sh*kespeare, the creator of said play. The goal was trope subversion. They don't understand it either. 
> 
> Enjoy?

It’d been quite some time since Kiyoomi had visited the gardens, but the scent of honeysuckle and rose still drenched the air, as it did in each of his fondest childhood memories. The heat of the day had fizzled out with the sun, gentle winds cooling the scorched earth like an apology for its earlier cruelty. Each plant glistened with care, leaves gleaming green in the dim lamplight. Kiyoomi dipped a finger into the center of a bubblegum colored peony, pressing curiously against the inner pistil before lifting his finger and continuing to walk.    
  


The garden mostly harbored flowers, pretty and fragrant, perfect to press between book pages or to drop into boiling water for tea. But there was a section in the back, fenced off from the rest of the garden and mostly forgotten, where several gnarled fruit trees grew. It was the place Kiyoomi used to hide away in when life got loud and everything felt like too much all at once. 

He’d long since forgotten which branches held which type of citrus, but the clearing smelled tart and sharp and Kiyoomi craved the taste of something familiar. He yanked at rusted gate poles, wedged them open wide enough to weasel his way through, and wade his way through grass that tickled his knees. 

A small bench sat in the middle of the clearing, slightly worn into a perfectly Kiyoomi-sized divot. The grass, although wild and overgrown everywhere else, grew short and contained around the marble seat, as though it remembered Kiyoomi’s distaste at the sensation of it brushing against his calves, and had the decency to learn to keep its distance. 

Kiyoomi tugged at the fabric mask itching uncomfortably at the bridge of his nose. He pushed it past his forehead, laying it to rest on top of wiry black curls. After a brief moment of deliberation, he waltzed past the bench, shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, and stretched up to pluck a fruit from the tree closest to him. It was a light yellow-orange, about the size of his palm and waxy to the touch. 

He brought the fruit to his nose, inhaled deeply, sank down onto the bench, and began to peel.

The pith gathered stickily beneath his nails, rind spraying fragrant mist across deft fingers. Kiyoomi wanted to be disgusted, but his mind was far too preoccupied. As he tore back the flesh of the citrus, he loosened his vice like grip on his composure and began to cry. 

The tears came slow and sobless, a bit hot on his skin as they dribbled down his cheeks. From here, the brash trumpets and scraping violins coming from the manor behind him were merely a dull roar. If Kiyoomi were to cup his hands around his ears, he’d hear a similar sound in the way his blood pumped through his veins. 

Night rested heavy here compared to the dazzling party he’d left behind. But the light from the garden lamps seared holes into his overstimulated mind, so he squeezed his eyes shut and willed his head to stop throbbing. He let the bits of rind collect in a pile at his feet, more so to keep his fingers occupied than anything else. 

“Ya know that’s a lemon, right?”

Kiyoomi, who had been under the impression that the fruit in his hand was a slightly underripe orange, straightened his posture before responding. “Of course I do. I’m not an idiot.” 

Then, remembering he had stepped into the clearing alone, wrenched his eyes open and whipped his head towards the direction of the voice.

A masked man, draped in darkness, leaned cross armed against a tree trunk about ten paces away. He cocked his head curiously. “An’ yer gonna eat it?”

Embarrassment settled rosily on Kiyoomi’s cheeks as he swiftly brushed away his tears and recomposed himself. “Why not? Lemons are a significant source of vitamins.” The man shifted upright and began to move towards Kiyoomi, who tensed immediately. “Stay away.”

“Relax, sugar,” the man soothed, hands held up in surrender. “I’m not gonna hurt ya.” Kiyoomi eyed him cautiously as he slowly approached the bench. “Is it okay if I sit?”

After a moment of hesitation, Kiyoomi slid over to make room for the stranger and nodded. “Do not get too close.”

The man smirked. “As ya wish.” He ambled to the furthest edge of the bench, folded his arms together again, and eased himself down. Kiyoomi stayed alert as the bench shifted to accommodate the added weight, nerves running wild with apprehension. “Y’know, most of the vitamins are in the peel. Ya plannin’ on eatin’ that too?”

“Maybe.” Kiyoomi brushed bits of lemon rind off of his lap. “And where did you learn information like that anyhow? You do not look like someone who would care much about nutrition.”

“Please,” the man scoffed. “I know I don’ sound all that eloquent, but I’m more than jus’ a pretty face.”

Now that the stranger had moved out of the shadows, Kiyoomi could see that he looked to be about his age. Bright, glimmering eyes, teeming with mischief. Blond hair that fell in waves against his temples, resembling the sleekness of corn silk. His lips were permanently tilted in a cocksure grin, lips round and full around ice-white teeth. 

He was dressed as though he had stepped straight out of the manor, bored of twirling to upbeat melodies and basking in the attention of all who laid eyes on him. He donned a dark velvet doublet embroidered with intricate gold lace, fit snug against his broad shoulders, sturdy torso arched haughtily. The cuffs at his wrists were neatly folded and his collar stood tall and proud, ruffles adorning the ridge at the top.

What drew most of Kiyoomi’s attention, however, was the mask adorning the upper half of his face. Composed of thick dark fabric, it curled out at the sides like a pair of short whiskers, the nosepiece sloping down to a pointed tip. Intricate swirls of golden lace curled patterns against his cheeks, coming to a head at the topmost center in a flare of textured fabric. But the real showstopper, the focus of Kiyoomi’s fixated stare, were the slitted holes where fox-like eyes peered out. They were calculated, laden with anticipation. 

They made Kiyoomi feel like prey.

A hunger rested deep behind those eyes, frightening and predatory, and Kiyoomi felt something gnawing at his stomach, felt that unwavering gaze tear into his torso and feast on his insides. 

He swallowed and slid his eyes away, feigning nonchalance. “How was I meant to come to that conclusion with your face concealed in such a way?”

“Well, well, well,” the man lilted. “If ya wanted to disrobe me so badly, ya could’ve just asked.”

Kiyoomi huffed indignantly. “I said nothing about ‘disrobing’. But is it not quite unfair to conceal your identity, whilst I have mine on display?”

“Ya seem to have a perfectly good mask on your forehead. By all means, put it back on if ya wanna be equal so bad.”

Kiyoomi lifted a finger to trace against the silk thread keeping the mask secure at the crown of his head. He thought for a moment, only to return his hands to his lap without pulling the fabric down. “I would actually prefer it if you left. You are disturbing me.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “By talkin’?”

“Yes,” Kiyoomi affirmed. “There is no worth in talking for the mere sake of it.”

The man assessed him for a moment before speaking. “Well, it made ya stop cryin’,” he said, earnestly. “I wouldn’t call that a waste.”

Crimson blazed hot across Kiyoomi’s cheeks and he regretted not pulling his mask down before. “I-I wasn’t crying.”

“Sure ya weren’t.” Kiyoomi avoided his eye, fixating instead on his fingers pulling rind from flesh, piece by piece. 

His heart ached with embarrassment. Had the stranger followed him from the party? Assuming he was a loose lipped royal like most Kiyoomi knew, word would doubtlessly spread that the Sakusa son, only heir to his father’s fortune, had been caught fleeing his own party to cry in the gardens. The shame would ruin him.

He’d be scorned by all, mocked for leaving a worthy suitor such as Count Wakatoshi to dance alone. After all, the sole purpose of this party was for them to meet, for the Count to woo him with charm and wit, the end goal of which was the merging of their families, and subsequently, their fortunes. 

A throat cleared beside him and tore him from his thoughts. The man motioned to where Kiyoomi’s palm now dripped juice, thumb dug past the rind and into the fruit’s flesh. Kiyoomi swore silently. 

“So,” the man drawled awkwardly. “Whatcha doin’ out here? Crowds ain’t really yer thing?”

“That is none of your business.”

The man sucked his teeth and turned away. “Now, are all you people this prickly, or have ya just eaten too many lemons tonight?”

“If you must know,” Kiyoomi shifted his shoulders back defensively, “Tonight has been rather distressing.” He shot the man a pointed look. “And you are not being much of a help.”

“Would ya like me to be?” A gentle suggestion, laced with amusement. Kiyoomi felt patronized. 

“I would like you to leave me alone.” 

“No way,” the man scoffed, puffing his chest out and squaring his shoulders. “I could never leave a damsel in distress to fend for himself.”

Kiyoomi pursed his lips in anger. “I am not a damsel,” he spat through gritted teeth. “I am a Lord.”

“How wonderful!” The man pressed a hand to his chest solemnly. “So am I.”

“Very funny.”

“Hey, I’m serious!”

“Then why do you speak so strangely?” Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes at the stranger. “And where are your manners? Surely if you are a Lord like you claim to be, you would have a bit more respect for common courtesy.”

The man seemed to ponder that for a moment. Lamp light glinted off his cheek as he tilted his head to face the sky, exposing the underside of his jaw. Kiyoomi’s eyes gravitated to the muscles of his neck, striations sloping beneath his unbuttoned collar. There was a groove where the man’s throat met his shoulder, dripping shadows into the divot of his collarbone. He was neither light, nor dark, but some amalgamation of the two, composed of triangles of tawny skin and inky contour. 

“Ain’t that exactly why I shouldn’t?” 

It took a moment for Kiyoomi to register the question, but by the time he caught himself staring, the man already had a brow cocked in his direction. 

He felt his words gum up in his throat, and the man spared him the embarrassment by continuing. “As Lords, we have reputations. Gotta talk proper, act proper, all that bullshit. It’s exhausting’, tryna be perfect all the time.” 

The man took a contemplative breath. “But if it’s just two Lords alone...” He shrugged. “Can’t we just be normal?”

“Normal…” Kiyoomi rolled the word around on his tongue like it was the first time he’d ever tried to speak it. It tasted odd, unfamiliar, but the flavor was strong and pleasant and he wanted to savor it. “I think I would like to be normal.”

It was the man’s turn to stare when Kiyoomi casted his eyes to his feet. He nudged a curl of rind with the tip of his boot, toppling it from its perch at the top of the pile and watching it fall to the dirt. He wrinkled his nose as he pressed it deeper into the soil with his heel.

Kiyoomi couldn’t remember a time when he had last peeled a fruit for himself. Every night after dinner, a servant would bring him a bowl of all different kinds; apples, pears, figs, etcetera. They weren’t grown at the manor, but imported from a land unfathomably far. Sliced by a knife created by someone unknown, wielded by someone just as unfamiliar, and deposited on his bedside table without a second thought as to the dozens of hands it must have passed through to get to him.

He stared at the dripping lemon in his hand, contemplative and silent. 

“What’s yer name?” 

“... Kiyoomi.” The stranger had earned that much, he supposed.

“Wrong.” 

“Excuse me?”

“If we’re sheddin’ our titles tonight,” the man said as he heaved himself onto his feet. He tapped his chin with his pointer finger. “We should at least take up some aliases. I’ll call you… Omi.”

“My name is  _ Kiyo _ omi.”

“And mine’s Atsumu.” Then, with a sly grin, “but you can call me ‘Tsumu, if you’d like.”

Kiyoomi angled himself away from the man named Atsumu. “I’d prefer not to call you anything at all, if I can help it.” It was pitiful really, Kiyoomi thought, how desperate the man named Atsumu must have been for companionship. Especially when he’d made it abundantly clear that he was not interested in the slightest. 

Atsumu smiled, small and contained, suppressed with a bite to his lip. “Yer real cute, y’know that?” 

The burning cheeks returned, but Kiyoomi turned away before they could be showcased. He blamed it on his irritation. Yes, he was simply angry and reddened with it, that was all there was to it. 

Following the silence, Atsumu sauntered over to one of the trees before them. He was a bit shorter than Kiyoomi, so when he reached for a fruit, he had to surge onto his tiptoes, and when that still wasn’t enough, he resorted to jumping. It was quite ridiculous, and the sleeve of his doublet looked close to tearing, but he retrieved the citrus nonetheless. 

He tossed it up and down a few times as he made his way back to the bench, plopping down unceremoniously and nearly knocking Kiyoomi on his ass. Atsumu held out his arm, offering Kiyoomi the tart-smelling lemon. He glanced down at the pulpy mess he’d made of the first one, dropped it to his feet, and gave Atsumu a wary look before tentatively plucking the new fruit from the center of his palm.

Atsumu seemed satisfied with that. “So, what’s got a Lord fleein’ his own party?”

At the mention of his title, Kiyoomi raised his chin proudly. “If you must know,” he huffed. “I’m meant to be courted tonight.”

“And is bein’ courted somethin’ to cry about?”

Kiyoomi narrowed his eyes. Atsumu’s smirk deepened. 

“You’re not very tactful, are you?”

“So kind of ya to notice.”

To his credit, it was a good question, so Kiyoomi took a moment to consider: why  _ was _ he crying? He never felt things just to feel, always had a purpose for whichever way his heart bent. But for some reason, he couldn’t place the itching under his skin, the aching in his chest, overwhelming him until he felt he would burst.

The party preparations, the dance lessons, the primping and preening, all of it had been enough to give Kiyoomi a rash. 

“Everything must be perfect,” Motoya had said after hours of incessant fussing over his hair, his shoes, and everything in between. “The Count will not be able to keep his eyes off of you for a moment.”

He had dragged a sulking Kiyoomi to stand before his mirror, resting his head on his shoulder to admire his handiwork. “There,” he soothed, pinching the apples of Kiyoomi’s cheeks to coax a rosy hue from his skin. “You’re ripe for the picking.”

It had taken only half a night of false chivalry and greedy eyes for Kiyoomi to realize he did not want to be picked. He did not desire to be low hanging fruit waiting to be ripped from his branch by a stranger and devoured without a second thought. 

“It’s… frustrating,” he finally decided. “When you are forced to play a role you have no interest in fulfilling.”

He chanced a glance at Atsumu, expecting irritating smugness, but instead found genuine curiosity folded into the lines on his forehead. “Ya don’t like Wakatoshi?”

“I do not dislike him.” It was a truth he unfortunately felt, which made his situation all the more difficult. “He’s proper, and kind, and doesn’t interrupt people when they seek refuge in abandoned gardens in the middle of the night.”

Atsumu laughed at that, a deep, fluttering sound that twisted Kiyoomi’s stomach into knots. “But…”

“But,” Kiyoomi yielded. “I do not love him. I do not wish to love him. Yet we must marry for the sake of our families. My future is not mine to decide. I think that is something to cry about, is it not?”

Atsumu hummed. His brow was pensive but his eyes were teasing. Kiyoomi suddenly felt quite silly.

What fool spills their heart out to a stranger in the middle of the night? How absurd he was to assume he’d be taken seriously by the same man who’d called him a damsel, assuming he needed saving simply because he expressed the most basic of human vulnerabilities. 

Yet, the damage had been done, and now his secrets were laid bare to be scrutinized and belittled by the irritating man beside him. The edge of Atsumu’s mask flecked mischievous gold streaks across his irises. He wasn’t made of shadows and lines of light, Kiyoomi decided – the stranger named Atsumu was built of mocking eyes and condescending smirks and Kiyoomi wanted to punch him in the face. 

“Do you pity me now that you know the truth,” Kiyoomi articulated, digging the edge of his nail into lemon rind and fervently picking the fruit apart. He kept his voice even, but drenched each syllable in as much venom as he could muster. 

“Do you want my sympathy?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Good,” Atsumu declared. “‘Cause I was plannin’ on callin’ ya a coward.”

“A-a coward?”

“Yeah. Ya preach on and on about ‘circumstance’ and your ‘role to fulfill’, yet not a word about how ya plan to change it.” Kiyoomi bristled, but before he could fire back, Atsumu added fuel to the flame; “Hope yer havin’ fun at yer pity party though.”

He said it as nonchalantly as though he was discussing the weather, meanwhile Kiyoomi’s fingers twitched with the desire to wring the man’s neck. 

Who did he think he was? The privileged fool had no idea how suffocating it felt to be in the position Kiyoomi was in now. If he didn’t marry the Count, his family would become social pariahs, their name tarnished for generations to come. It was horribly rude to go back on a marriage offer and it had been discussed enough between the two families that it was practically set in stone. Tonight’s party was a formality for the most part, giving off the illusion of choice for the couple who knew their fate’s had been sealed by others. And yet, here was this supposed ‘fellow Lord’, preaching of cowardice and change, while it was unlikely that he even understood the gravity of those terms. 

Kiyoomi couldn’t bring himself to respond, chest teeming with so much anger, not a breath could be spared on words. 

“Oh how terrible,” Atsumu said, without an ounce of sincerity, after noticing Kiyoomi’s balled fists and stiffened jaw. “It seems I’ve offended the pretty, prickly, cowardly Lord.”

Kiyoomi’s lips curled into a snarl. “You would dare to do something as brazen as calling me pretty in the same sentence as cowardly?” he spat. 

“Of course. I have eyes after all.”

Atsumu grinned again, and even in his affected state, Kiyoomi could tell it wasn’t out of malice. His lips were rounded at the edges, softened so as not to accidentally cut as he flashed it outwards. One of his brows was raised, not mockingly, but expectantly. Challengingly? No, perhaps it was scornful after all. It was impossible to tell with the layer of fabric concealing most of his features. 

“Take off your mask,” Kiyoomi demanded. Atsumu studied him for a moment before reaching for the silk bow at the back of his head and giving it a tug. 

The fabric fell away and so did the intrigue, leaving a shadowless and slightly sweaty boy in its wake. Without the sharp angles of the mask, Atsumu looked rounder, more youthful and vigorous than the mature facade he’d held earlier. Red lines ran against the apples of his cheeks where the mask must have dug into the skin. It was odd, though, that the removal of the mask did nothing to temper his gaze; his eyes still blazed, hearths of flame sucking the warmth from Kiyoomi’s chest and subsequently doubling in size. 

“Like what ya see?”

Kiyoomi ignored him and turned to focus on peeling the last few stripes of rind from the lemon. He was not blushing, he absolutely was not. 

“What do you suppose I do then? Regarding my…  _ circumstance _ .”

Atsumu shrugged. “Run away. Throw a fit. Stand up for yerself. There’s no use in life if ya take everythin’ lying down.”

“I have never done such a thing before” Kiyoomi scoffed, scraping a nail across the skin of the lemon to slough any excess pith. “How am I expected to know how?”

“Practice.” Kiyoomi felt the bench wobble between them as Atsumu swept a leg over the side of the bench until he was straddling it. He leaned on his hand placed flat on the seat, motioning towards the fruit with the other. “You can start by takin’ a bite of that lemon. Yer not supposed to eat lemons alone, so if ya do, it’s kinda like yer rebellin’ against the world.”

That was an… interesting perspective, to say the least. 

Kiyoomi frowned at the fruit. He’d never taken a bite of a raw lemon before and couldn’t imagine it tasting anything but acidic and tart. Plus, Kiyoomi hadn’t washed his hands within the time spent in the gardens, and who knows how many bugs or other creatures had crawled up that tree during the lemon’s growth. The gardeners never worked past the gate, so for all Kiyoomi knew, he could be holding a sphere of liquid poison encased in a thin layer of membrane. 

But, you see, a challenge had been spoken into the air, laid thick like a woolen blanket on his shoulders. If he refused to cave, Atsumu might call him a coward again and Kiyoomi wasn’t sure if his pride could handle two blows in one night.

The man did make a good point though (of course, Kiyoomi’d never admit it aloud); maybe Kiyoomi had to start doing things for the sake of doing them, consequences be damned. He’d admit he was inexperienced in spontaneity, didn’t know how to navigate the world of impulse and recklessness. Kiyoomi grew up to be calculated, careful, wary, safe. 

_ Practice _ , Atsumu had said. 

Kiyoomi dug a thumb in the center of the lemon and slowly peeled the wedges of fruit apart until he held a single segment between his pointer finger and thumb. With one last withering glance at Atsumu, he raised the slice to his lips and pulled it into his mouth. 

His face immediately curled, saliva flowing thick to protect his taste buds from the pungent taste. Atsumu let out a soft chuckle and Kiyoomi willed for his nose to unscrunch, if only to save him from such blatant humiliation. Why did he even do such a silly thing?

“How’s it taste?” 

The bitterness subsided as Kiyoomi chewed. It didn’t taste half bad actually. Beneath the layers of burning sourness, there was a crisp sort of feel to it. It left a flowery taste behind on his tongue after he swallowed it down. He turned to Atsumu. 

“Delicious,” he said with all the honesty in his heart. “Perhaps the best lemon I have eaten in all of my years.”

Atsumu raised a brow as if he didn’t believe him and Kiyoomi was suddenly very grateful his face was no longer concealed by a mask. “If that’s so,” Atsumu prompted. “Mind if I get a taste?”

Kiyoomi began to fiddle with another section of the lemon, but before he could pull it free completely, Atsumu’s lips were on his. 

It took quite some time for Kiyoomi to recognize what had happened. His eyes stayed wide, taking in the long lashes merely centimeters in front of him as well as the slight flush to Atsumu’s cheeks. His breath caught in his throat, and he wanted to choke on it, but it stayed lodged there as though it didn’t want to disturb the two. Atsumu smelled sweet, like he’d rolled around in the flower beds some time prior. His lips were soft. He kissed gently. 

He pulled away nearly as quickly as he’d come forward, glancing away sheepishly before painting a shaky smirk on his mouth and swiping a tongue at his bottom lip. 

It was only after the fact that Kiyoomi realized his own lips had begun to burn, scorching a smear across the skin where each nerve ending had been set alight with touch. It was unfamiliar, and slightly uncomfortable, but Kiyoomi’s heart ached to experience it again, prepared this time, to see if this was really how kisses were meant to feel. 

The fear came secondary. This strange man whom Kiyoomi wasn’t even sure was a royal, has kissed him. They’d touched lips. It was closed mouthed, sure, but Kiyoomi had  _ never _ . Now, it was too late, and who knows what he’d come down with in the morning because of it. 

“Wh-why would you do that?” 

Kiyoomi was surprised when his voice came out rather light and airy, a complete contrast to the dread weighing heavy in his veins. He felt clawed open, exposed, gutted with one touch. Atsumu did not lunge at his innards, merely expected him curiously, amusedly. 

“I asked for a taste, didn’ I?” Atsumu dragged his lip between his teeth and Kiyoomi followed the action with his eyes, drinks in the sight of plump pink indented by even, pearlescent squares of teeth. “It was sweeter than I expected.”

Kiyoomi felt his heartbeat quicken, stomach going from overflowing with butterflies to churning with anxiety. “And what shall I do if I fall ill because of you? Who knows what diseases a man such as yourself may carry.”

Atsumu slid closer to Kiyoomi who made no move backwards. His gaze fell to his lips.  _ There’s that hunger again _ , Kiyoomi couldn’t help but think. “Then, would it be alright if I kissed ya again? That way, I can take back whatever it is I might’ve given ya.”

It’s horribly nonsensical logic, and had Kiyoomi’s mind been running as smoothly as it usually did, he would have called him out on such foolish thinking. But it was not, so instead Kiyoomi said:

“Please do.”   
  


Atsumu leaned in once more. This time, Kiyoomi was able to prepare himself, but it was still overwhelming how quickly Atsumu’s mouth was on his, how numb he felt at first, only for the sensation to tear down his spine all at once and make him dizzy with feeling. 

They parted and Kiyoomi sucked in a breath he had forgotten to take before. Even if he had, he was sure he’d have lost it at some point anyway. 

“There,” Atsumu said, eyes softening a bit at the edges. “All clean.”

For a moment, they sat there and simply basked in their shared stupefaction. Kiyoomi tried to assess himself, gage his discomfort level and whether or not to flee, but all he could feel was a giddy lightness he wasn’t sure how to contain. It bubbled out of his mouth, swam in his lungs, trickled down each of his limbs as he tried to shake himself out of this daze. 

Eventually, Atsumu’s telltale eyebrow cocked up and that infuriating action seemed to do it for him. 

“Are you expecting some sort of... gratitude?” he asked, astutely. 

“Well, I wouldn’ mind hearin’ a ‘Thank you’ slip from those rosy lips of yers.”

Kiyoomi burned with feelings he wasn’t sure how to handle, so instead of gratifying that with an answer, he peeled apart a wedge of lemon and shoved it unceremoniously into Atsumu’s mouth.

The latter’s lips twisted into a grimace as his teeth broke through the thin membrane and spilled sour juice into his mouth. “Liar,” he murmured, taking a moment to spit a seed out of the side of his mouth. Kiyoomi, naturally, recoiled in disgust. “That lemon tastes like shit.”

“It tasted rather good to me.”

Atsumu chewed the rest of his mouthful, pensively. He gave Kiyoomi a quick up and down, as if the past few moments were meant to have resulted in some grand metamorphosis. “I’d say all of that was pretty brave of ya. Still feelin’ cowardly?”

“No,” came the response. 

“Can I see you again?”

After a brief moment of thought:

“Yes.”

“When?”

He was about to answer, when they were interrupted by a loud shout:

“Kiyoomi!

“Motoya?” His head whipped around, finally crashing back down to earth and realizing the gravity of his reality. The voice seemed far enough away that Motoya likely hadn’t realized he was tucked away in the gardens. Kiyoomi hadn’t realized it before, but there seemed to be quite the uproar coming from the manor. 

Jumping to his feet, he dropped the remainder of the lemon and brushed his palms on his pants. He quickly turned to Atsumu. “Come to my balcony tomorrow night. It is at the west end of the manor. White curtains. I will be waiting at midnight.”

Kiyoomi was just about to take off for the gate when he felt a hand enclose around his wrist. “Wait.” 

Atsumu looped his fingers around the silk knot at the base of Kiyoomi’s skull, slipping his ebony mask off his forehead. 

“What are you–”

“For safe keepin’.” Atsumu tucked the mask into his pocket. “Gotta make sure ya won’ stand me up tomorrow, righ’?”

Silence settled between them as Kiyoomi fell under the spell of those hungry eyes once more. He blinked a few times before shaking his head lightly. “Give me yours too,” he said. “It would only be fair for me to be equally as distrusting of you.”

“Fair enough.” Atsumu pressed his own mask into Kiyoomi’s palm. “Until we meet again. Goodnight, Omi.”

“... Goodnight, ‘Tsumu.”

And with that, Kiyoomi whirled on his heel and bounded after Motoya’s voice. 

~

“Where in the world have you been?” Motoya asked once Kiyoomi finally caught him. He eyed the glittering mask clutched tight in Kiyoomi’s hand. “And where did you get that?”

“Nothing. What has happened?”   
  


“The Miyas, that is what has happened.” Motoya huffed angrily and hooked his arm around Kiyoomi’s elbow, half dragging him back towards the manor. “The party has been crashed by that damned family. They concealed themselves so well, we could not detect them until it was too late.” Motoya blew a piece of hair out of his face. “They destroyed everything they set their eyes on and scared away nearly all of the guests.” 

Kiyoomi stumbled after him, trying to keep up with Motoya’s hasty pace. “I was not there when it happened. In fact,” he glared at Kiyoomi from the corner of his eye. “I was searching for you. But when I returned, the ballroom was in shambles and the Count had disappeared. All of my preparations for nothing!”

Kiyoomi did not tell Motoya about his excitement at the news, as he did not think he would take it well. He already seemed to be in enough trouble for skipping out as long as he did. 

“But really,” Motoya yanked Kiyoomi a few more paces and stopped suddenly. “What is in your hand?”

Without even waiting for a response, he snatched the fabric from Kiyoomi’s grasp and held it up to a nearby lightpost. The color drained from his face nearly immediately. “Where did you get this?”

Kiyoomi didn’t answer, partly because he wasn’t sure how. Was he supposed to tell his cousin that he’d met a handsome stranger in the forgotten gardens and kissed him, lemony and sweetly? That didn’t sound like something that was meant to be shared with others. 

“Why do you ask?” 

Motoya lowered the fabric. He looked aghast. Kiyoomi felt a sense of apprehension creep into his bones.

“Because… the Miya’s were all wearing masks exactly like this one tonight.”

**Author's Note:**

> Don't follow me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/catboyhokage), but u can have a look around I guess.


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